


Patron Saint of Cats

by gala_apples



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Cats, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2012-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:39:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mikey’s just trying to do a good deed. Jon’s the one who has to make it all complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patron Saint of Cats

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the quote "How we behave toward cats here below determines our status in heaven. - Robert A. Heinlein"

The way Frank sees things, everyone should have one good habit to make up for all the shit they do. Not in a Heaven and Hell, repenting sort of way, Mikey wouldn’t have listened to that shit. He gets enough on Sundays, he doesn’t need it from his friends. Frank just maintains it’s good for the personality, to make sure you keep tabs on the shitty things you do and balance them out. Mikey thinks he’s got a point. If everyone was a bastard all the time the world would suck. That being said, Frank is an only child with an allowance to match. His good habit is simple, he donates. Change in stores gets tosses into those metal boxes welded to the counter, bigger amounts to shelters for women and teenagers.

Mikey stopped getting an allowance at the age of twelve, he can’t afford to help like that. His good habit is more hands on; Mikey always reads the lost animal signs on the telephone poles. His walk home from school takes about fifteen minutes longer than Gerard’s ever did because of it. They’re just so fucking sad, and it’s sadder still to think it’s the sort of thing most people would just walk straight past. Mikey won’t let himself ignore the neon sheets of paper, even when they depress him.

It takes a while, but eventually he spots a stray cat he’s sure isn’t a stray. It’s time to follow through and snare the cat and haul it off to it’s owner. Otherwise all the lines of _please_ and _reward_ and _answers to the name_ are for nothing, and he’s just another tool walking past without caring about others. Of course, he doesn’t actually remember what the grey and black striped cat answers to, not when he reads a dozen a day. It’s still pretty easy to attract the pet, he always carries a thing of catnip in his hoodie just in case.

What’s more difficult is walking around town with a cat bundled in his arms. Before he can return it he needs to figure out where the missing poster was stapled up so he know how to contact the owner. After half an hour of searching he’s determined from now on he’s going to just put them all in a separate contacts list in his phone, because this is ridiculous. It’s crazy, and it’s _sad_ , that there are so many missing animals.

He finally finds the poster, a colour picture on pink printer paper, laminated with packing tape. It’s face level outside one of the underage clubs Mikey frequents, and he’s surprised it hasn’t been completely covered with a band ad yet. As it is, only a few words aren’t visible, the phone number is clear. Mikey plugs it in, expertly holding his phone with one hand, cat still under his arm. It’s probably high as fuck from the catnip.

When it stops ringing Mikey talks before the guy can ask him who the hell he is and how he got his number. “Hey. I dunno if you’re home, but I got, uh, the poster says Dylan? So-”

“Holy shit, really? Thank you so- Fuck! My mom has the fucking car! Shit!”

“It’s cool. I’ll drop him off, where do you live?” Mikey recognises the street name, he doesn’t even need to plug it into his map app. It’s only a ten minute walk from the club. It’s just as easy to find the actual house, unlike Mikey’s street the properties are well kept with mowed lawns and non flickering streetlights. All the houses have shiny gold or silver numbers attached.

It takes about three seconds for the door to be thrown open after Mikey rings the doorbell. The person that plucks Dylan from his hands is a shorter teenager, much better at growing facial hair than Gerard’s aborted tries. “Thank you, I was worried it was a prank call, thank you for not being some douche. Oh my god. I love you forever, thank you so much. About the reward-”

Mikey shakes his head. “I don’t want anything.” 

“But I said on the poster-”

That’s really not why he’s doing this. “I don’t need it.” Sure he might _want_ it, but it sort of defeats the purpose of going a good thing if he gets paid to do it. 

“I have fifty bucks sitting around doing nothing,” he says, trying to sway him. 

Mikey shrugs. “Donate it to like a charity or buy a concert ticket. Or donate a concert ticket to a charity. I bet teens at shelters never get to go to clubs.”

The guy shrugs back, and Mikey heads towards the club, from which he can find his way home.

It should be the end of it. Except it’s not, because the guy has some sort of massive guilt complex. In hindsight it’s not surprising that he goes to Mikey’s school, every high school has it’s own catchment area and his street was well within range. But there’s a difference between Dylan’s owner sharing a high school, and hovering beside the bench that Mikey and Frank are sharing and asking if he wants him to buy him lunch. Frank can’t eat cafeteria food thanks to allergies, and he can’t eat in the cafeteria thanks to bullies that he engages at least sixty percent of the time. Mrs Iero has asked Mikey to try and prevent fist fights and anaphylaxis, and he can see where both would be a good idea to avoid. Mikey shakes his head and then has to spend the next half hour trying to get Frank to shut up about whether Jon’s his new boyfriend. Mikey pointing out that Frank knowing his name when he didn’t being a clear sign he’s _Frank’s_ boyfriend doesn’t go over too badly, if by ‘too badly’ Mikey means Frank lightly shoves him off the bench onto the floor.

Mikey’s pushing his way through the mass of teenagers smoking one last cigarette while waiting for a ride after school when he feels a hand come down on his shoulder. His normal stance on high school is show no fear, so he yanks his shoulder away and doesn’t apologise for bumping someone with his backpack or whatever the fuck their problem is.

He doesn’t turn around until he hears the guy’s voice “you sure I can’t pay you back?”

Mikey rolls his eyes. He definitely remembers already having this conversation. He deadpans “just pay me back with one thousand kisses.” The scruffy kid -Jon- stares like he thinks Mikey means it. Mikey rolls his eyes a second time. That’s the last time he watches a musical with Gee, even if it is edgy and about not selling out your art in a world where everything would be easier if you did. Mikey is a movie quoter by nature, and that shit is safer with Romero and Lucas.

“Look, you smoke up, right?” Jon shrugs his agreement, so Mikey continues. “So smoke a bowl with me, and we’ll call it even.” It’s not a request that’ll make him feel like an asshole, considering it’s high school and everyone’s expected to mooch. Hopefully it’s be enough to get Jon to not worry about it though.

“Cool. My shit’s at my house, follow behind me?”

“I bus.”

“Then be my co-pilot.” Mikey shrugs and follows Jon to his car. He’s hardly going to be kidnapped and tortured, no man that almost cries when his cat is returned to him would torture someone. The car reeks of pot when he climbs in, Mikey almost expects a cloud of white to billow out.

Jon’s first move after getting in, aside from turning off the alarm, is to kneel and start petting Dylan. There’s a second cat, and Mikey figures it’s probably pissed at being left out, so he unties his shoe and shakes his foot at it. Sure enough the cat goes for his flopping laces like they’re evil birds that need to be taken out. Mikey’s still playing when Jon comes back with his pipe. The screen is disgusting, black with resin. Jon stands beside the front door and starts poking holes in it with a sewing pin. Frankly it would be easier to make a bong out of a can, but you don’t diss the guy with the stash. That’s just etiquette 101.

He opens the wall of windows in the living room before sinking into the couch and packing a bowl. Mikey guesses that means they’re not going back outside, and he kicks his shoes off. Dad would beat his ass if mom didn’t do it first if they smelled pot smoke in the house, and he wonders if Jon thinks the slight breeze is going to cut it, or if he’s just got hippie parents that don’t care. He doesn’t have time to ask before Jon is passing him the lighter and the pipe, and probably wouldn’t have anyway.

When Jon leans in for a kiss, Mikey lets him. He even turns his head a little because it’s an awkward angle, Jon sitting right beside him. “One.”

“What?”

“One of one thousand. Except that’s a lot, like ten a day for three months. I was wondering I could cash in a hundred for a blowjob.”

Mikey does his best to come up with a good line. “I’d check X E Converter for currency exchange but your computer is way the fuck over there.” To add emphasis he chin juts in it’s general direction. A full arm gesture seems too difficult. Jon’s clearly got a different dealer than he does, the weed he normally gets doesn’t make him so damn lazy.

“Is that a yes? Cause I’ve asked around, you’re not exactly straight.”

“Me and Pete didn’t actually fuck,” he says automatically. He doesn’t know why so many people think that.

“Yeah. But you and William did. And _damn_ I would have enjoyed watching that. Woulda been like two giraffes fucking.”

“Giraffes?”

“Yeah, like ninety eight percent of giraffe sex is gay or lesbian sex, if it’s consensual. Het is basically rape. Also there is pee involved.”

“Huh,” he answers. That’s actually really sort of interesting.

“So wanna be gay giraffes?” Mikey never really heard it put that way, but he’s not really one for turning people down. Not when something as important as orgasms are involved. Or, you know, zombies. But that comes up less often than he’d like.

“You don’t have to or anything. Like, I woulda gotten Dylan for nothing, because that’s how people should be, right? But if you want to, I’m really not going to say no.” Seriously, who would? Apparently Jon does want to, because he’s sliding off the couch and crawling the little bit over to Mikey’s feet. He puts a hand on each knee, fingers curving precisely against the bone. Then Jon just stares at him for a minute, and Mikey’s wondering what the hell else he has to say before it hits him. Mikey quirks a sheepish smile and uses absolutely all of his energy to unzip his jeans then raise his hips a little get them out from underneath him.

The blowjob is nice. Mikey thinks it would be better under the influence of his own pot. At the very least it would be easier to focus. His sober self would kick him in the face for saying it, but it’s almost easy to forget what’s happening. Yeah Jon’s mouth feels nice, but so does the armrest on his forearms, the velvety texture of the couch under his ass, the sewn in pillow bump behind his head, the air conditioning blowing over everything.

When he comes it’s almost an afterthought. It should be rippling through his body like a tidal wave of sensation, should be even better stoned than coming normally. Instead it’s just another thing. Mikey suspects he’ll feel annoyed when he’s not stoned at how faily the sex was. He can almost feel annoyed now, it’s only the slightest bit beyond his reach. Jon doesn’t even jerk off while he’s on his knees, just climbs back on the couch and starts preparing another bowl.

“Next time we’re smoking my pot. That was ridiculous.”

“Yeah, sure. Want a hoot of this one though?”

Mikey holds his hand out and waits for Jon to deposit the warm metal in it. So maybe Frank is right about everything ever; good habits, and getting high, and the rugby team being assfaces, and Spiderman sucking, and potential boyfriends. Doesn’t mean he’s going to inform him of it. The world needs a cocky Frank like it needs more carbon dioxide in the atmosphere.


End file.
